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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560542">Ain’t Sentimental</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara'>aban_asaara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Freakshow: John Hancock and Lizzy Oslow Hayes [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Friends With Benefits, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:21:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Looking at her, big words like “fate” sometimes spring into his mind. It’s bull, he knows. And selfish. Pretty sure she’d never forgive him for reducing everything she’s been through to a twist of fate.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Still: the woman out of time. What are the odds?</i>
</p>
<p>After clearing Fallon’s with Lizzy, Hancock gets a little maudlin despite himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Freakshow: John Hancock and Lizzy Oslow Hayes [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ain’t Sentimental</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ve barely written anything in weeks, so this was a low-pressure attempt to get back in the saddle and try my hand at Hancock’s POV. I hope it’s an enjoyable read! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A spray of blood splashes a naked mannequin, and the super mutant slams back so hard the floor shakes under Hancock’s feet. “Think that was the last of ‘em,” he says, sliding a couple of fresh shells into the chamber of his shotgun. “Handled yourself pretty well, sister.”</p>
<p>A savage grin splits Lizzy’s red mouth over the barrel of her submachine gun. Her green eyes shine in the glow of a nearby trashcan bonfire. “You’re not half bad yourself,” she says, breathless. Cocky suits her, Hancock decides. Ain’t much that doesn’t, but she’s only recently traded the flailing panic for cool aplomb, and he likes the change. “Hey, mind if I have a look around?”</p>
<p>“Knock yourself out, dynamite. I’ll keep an eye out.”</p>
<p>Lizzy’s already halfway up the still escalator, her footsteps echoing the empty department store. Hancock pockets the dead super mutant’s ammo and follows her up the metallic staircase. Upstairs, the mannequins stand in sad, bare rows. Not a lot of clothes left on the racks either, and what hasn’t been looted disintegrated to dusty strips of fabric ages ago. Still, that doesn’t deter Lizzy. She’s picked her way backstore in seconds, and he finds her rummaging through clothes racks and boxes, examining labels and sizes.</p>
<p>Hancock lets her have her fun while he does one last sweep of the floor. Super mutants aren’t exactly known for their ambushes, but hey, he’d rather not be caught with his pants down the day some new FEV mutation produces a few extra brain cells. Fallon’s is quiet now, though. Not a sound except his own footsteps and the cracking noise of gunfire outside, too distant to worry. Lizzy sure ain’t, anyway: she’s singing to herself now, her sweet voice drifting to him as he makes his way back among decades of piled-up trash and broken furniture. He fishes his smokes from the pocket of his frock coat, then leans against the railing that overhangs the floors of the department store.</p>
<p>Hancock listens.</p>
<p>He catches some of the lyrics—<em>I wanna be loved by you, just you, nobody else but you</em>—over the rustling of fabric and the clacking noise of hangers. He pictures her dressed like the girls on the faded billboards, shopping bags hooked on her arms, and wonders what the place was like before the bombs. He ain’t the sentimental type, but he’s done that a lot since he’s met her. Of course he’s wondered what the ruins were like before—who hasn’t?—with passersby instead of skeletons and cars running along the streets instead of littering them. But Lizzy’s like a crack in time: one look at her and he’s thrown two hundred years back, with her prim mannerisms, her outdated expressions, even the way she enters rooms and buildings with some sort of unspoken expectation, only to be let down every time.</p>
<p>Looking at her, big words like “fate” sometimes spring into his mind. It’s bull, he knows. And selfish. Pretty sure she’d never forgive him for reducing everything she’s been through to a twist of fate.</p>
<p>Still: the woman out of time. What are the odds?</p>
<p><em>Cut it out</em>, he tells himself, flicking his cigarette butt down the railing. Sparks leap when it hits the metal steps of the escalator below. <em>You don’t even believe in that crap</em>.</p>
<p>“Hancock?”</p>
<p>“The one and only,” he replies, turning to face her. Lizzy’s traded her leathers for a red dress that hugs her figure and still musters a silky shine after a couple of centuries. She spins around once, sending her dark curls swaying along her shoulder blades. “Well, look at you.”</p>
<p>It’s the happiest he’s seen her, all smiles and twinkling green eyes. Somehow, it pisses him off. She deserves better than all this crap. Better than two-hundred-year-old loot. Better than the nuked ruins of a department store, slabs of meat swinging from hooks and fishing nets full of dismembered limbs hanging from the ceiling.</p>
<p>Better than him.</p>
<p>Oh, he’s under no illusion. Whatever this is ain’t gonna last, he knows. Can’t. He was there at the right time, ready to break her fall, ready to set her inner bad girl free and all that. Chems and good head’s about the extent of what he can give her. When the novelty of fucking a ghoul wears off, and it will, she’ll find herself some half-decent guy and settle down. Preston Garvey, maybe. That Paladin Danse, even though the thought makes him puke in his mouth a little. And why not? Military types were at the top of the food chain back in her time. Not ghouls. Not him.</p>
<p>What’d he say? Not sentimental. That shit’s not for him.</p>
<p>“Can you zip me up?” Lizzy asks, sweeping her hair out of the way with one hand. The little hairs on the nape of her neck sway in his breath, and her skin’s smooth and warm under his knuckle as he pulls the zipper up. Then she tosses a fur stole around her neck and rolls one bare, seductive shoulder. “So? What do you think?” she asks, grinning at him.</p>
<p>Hancock manages a lopsided smile. “Sure was wasted on the super mutants.”</p>
<p>Lizzy laughs and smacks his arm playfully, except her hand lingers there, and since when does he even give a crap about these things? Then her smile turns coy, and her eyes, shy. “Thank you for coming here with me,” she says, glancing up at him through her lashes. “I know it’s stupid, but I just … I missed this place.”</p>
<p>“Nah,” he says, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “It ain’t stupid.”</p>
<p>He can smell the heady, boozy perfume she’s spritzed herself with, more intoxicating than chems. If anything ever smelled like this in the wild, it got blasted off the face of the earth long ago. Lizzy’s hand moves from his arm to lie splayed on his chest. “Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are, Mister Mayor?”</p>
<p>Hancock grins. “Got me mistaken for someone else, sugar bomb.”</p>
<p>She makes a humming noise, eyes half-lidded. “I don’t know about that,” she says between their mouths. He can still taste the gum drops on her lips when she presses them to his mouth, and the lingering sweetness feels better than Jet when it hits his bloodstream. Just another temptation he can’t resist. Might as well get his fix while he can.</p>
<p>Gonna be one hell of a withdrawal.</p>
<p>She lets their lips part, and her smile turns wicked. “Come on. Lingerie’s one floor up,” she says, winking.</p>
<p>Lizzy slings her submachine gun over her shoulder and starts back towards the escalator. Hancock watches the sway of her hips for a moment, then follows after her. No, he ain’t the sentimental type, but boy does she make it hard to stay that way.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Come say hello on <a href="https://asaara-writes.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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